


as luck would have it

by bottomlinsons



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Drink Spiking, Felix Felicis, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Potions, Professional Quidditch, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 05:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17739884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottomlinsons/pseuds/bottomlinsons
Summary: It’s intense, the realisation that these last five seconds are going to ruin his entire career. Everything he’s worked for, since he was fucking thirteen, is going to be gone. He’ll be disqualified, from the French team first, and from the Quibs right after. The press is going to tear him to fucking pieces.He just wanted a fucking coffee.(Or, Louis' about to play the biggest game of his life. A spiked cup of coffee and his old Hogwarts crush isn't gonna distract him.)





	as luck would have it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [graceling_in_a_suit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceling_in_a_suit/gifts).



> _Larry Professional Quidditch AU: Louis & Harry play for opposing teams, were rivals in Hogwarts and haven’t seen each other off the field in the five years since. One day, before a big game, Louis gets nervous and takes Felix Felicis. Hijinks ensue!_ 
> 
>  _Nb. Bonus points if you include: How does a wixen get rid of a rash? With Quid-itch!_  
> 
> I played with the prompt just a little, I hope you like it anyway!! Massive thanks to fogandtea, yas & babs for going over this with a fine tooth comb and catching all my silly mistakes.

 ✨

The Quidditch World Cup is everything Louis has ever dreamed of, and he’s dreamed of it _a lot._

It doesn’t go as far back as his first ever ride on a broom, but it’s probably close to his second or third. It was definitely in his first year at school, which puts it close to his eleventh birthday. He’s twenty-three now. That makes it more than half his life he’s wanted this, and probably a thousand and one conversations with people older than him who’d sworn he’d never make it.

It’s a bloody good feeling, proving them wrong. This is his, his own. He’s fought for this, for the right to be here, and now there’s no bloody doubt. This is where he belongs.

They’re playing on his home turf, too, which helps drive that feeling home. Sure, it’s not his _real_ home turf, but he’s been playing for the _Quibs_ long enough now he feels like an honourary French man.

They’ve pulled out all the stops. The stadium’s always been proper posh, with its mirrored ponds and trimmed hedges, but they’ve been hard at work for months to make sure it’s up to Cup standard. They even had some fairies on contract, Louis’ heard, and you can tell. Even the air feels like it’s been dressed up for the occasion, glimmering in the sunshine, boasting the grounds’ opulence.  

It’s all very French, and Louis fucking loves it.

Well, he loves most of it.

He stares down at the cup of coffee he’s just been offered. It’s pink — _pink!_ — and sparkly. He can already smell how burnt it is, and the six or seven charms layered all over it.

Liam takes one look at him and rolls his eyes.

“Not again, Louis”.

“This is _not_ coffee,” Louis is absolutely appalled. He keeps his voice at a whisper because he doesn’t want to upset the shop owner, who he’s just paid three bloody galleons for this atrocity. He won’t go silently into the night, though.

Liam’s got a similar nightmare in his hands; a blue and orange thing that’s literally _bubbling_ , but he doesn’t seem fussed. He takes a sip and sighs contentedly, just a hint of a smirk that tells Louis it’s absolutely just an air to get Louis more worked up.

“It’s good!”

“That’s a joke.”

Liam harrumphs.

They leave the shop and Louis brings himself back up to normal volume.

“I don’t understand why it’s so hard. Coffee’s not supposed to have all this shit on it, it’s simple. Milk and beans, that’s all it is.”

“Beans?” Liam’s face scrunches up. “Like green beans?”

God save Louis from purebloods.

He decides to ignore the question and press on. If he doesn’t, he’ll be explaining for hours. “You can maybe put one sugar in it. If it’s a special occasion.”

Liam hums and takes another happy sip of his drink. “I like it like this,” he says. “Can feel the wake up charm working already, feels great.”

“You make me sick.”

Liam doesn’t bat an eyelash. He’s practically immune to Louis’ particular flavour of drama these days. It’s probably due to sheer over-exposure.  “You’re not going to have yours?”

Louis sighs and passes his over. He’s glad to be rid of it. When he gets it in his hands, Liam takes a sip of that one too. He’s grinning.

“Ooh, this one’s a bit spicy.”

It’s a lost bloody cause.

“You poor, sad, silly, little boy.” Louis rubs at his eyes, disappointed. “You’re such a fool.”

Liam barks a loud laugh, which is a bit offensive really.

“Can you maybe chill?” His eyes are all lit up, like Louis’ pain is his breakfast and he can’t wait to eat it all up. “Just go to the village and get one of your plain ones.”

Plain ones, Louis thinks. The _audacity._

To be fair though, he can do that.

“That’s actually a good idea.”

Liam winks at him. “I’m full of them.”

“Will I see you before practice?”

Liam’s a reporter for _Charmed Daily_ , and for most of the Cup he’s been busier than Louis has. That they’ve found a moment today, hours away from the Grand Final, is nothing short of a miracle.

“Probably not, to be fair.” Liam does a funny little spin, looking down to his pockets and searching for something. The whole affair is made difficult considering he’s got his hands full. Louis doesn’t help him. “I’ve got a schedule somewhere. There’s a couple of press conferences to go to. England’s booked a full run.”

Louis’ eyes narrow. England is who Louis will be playing against, in no less than five short hours. It’s who Louis will be winning against, actually.

“Why’ve they got all the press? They’re not even going to win.”

Liam eyes him. “I mean, they might.”

Louis swats him in the arm. He had noticed Liam was wearing England’s colours, but he’d hoped it was just a silly accident. “Are you having a laugh?”

Liam has the balls to look confused by this. “No?”

Louis gapes. “Traitor!”

“How am I a traitor?”

Louis’ a bit miffed Liam even needs to ask. As if it isn’t already one-hundred-percent obvious.

“You should be rooting for me, I’m your best mate.”

“I’m _English_ ,” Liam looks like he wants to cross his arms but the not-coffees are really getting in his way. He settles for jutting his hip out, but it doesn’t really have the same effect. “So are you, actually.”

Louis grumbles. “Not today, I’m not. Today I’m French, and I won’t hear a word against us.”

“You definitely don’t want to be near the press tent today.”

Louis narrows his eyes and sniffs a little. He doesn’t want to hear about the slander that’ll be going on right under Liam’s nose. Especially now he knows Liam’s going to be a more than active participant.

Honestly, where’s the loyalty?

“I’m going to the village.”

Liam nods. “You do that.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

“It is good!”

Louis walks away before Liam can say anything else. He’s not allowed to apparate within the boundaries, not with the Cup’s regulations and all the rules about staying inconspicuously hid from the muggles, so he keeps his pace quick. He’ll get the last word if it kills him.

“Have fun!” Liam calls after him.

“ _You_ have fun!”

It doesn’t land the way he wants it to. It’s hard to tell someone to enjoy their day and have it sound like a ‘ _fuck off.’_ He’ll be better once he gets some proper, old fashioned coffee in him.

Liam won’t know what hit him.

✨

The best part of muggle France, Louis thinks, is its sheer abundance of breakfast cafes. It’s like there’s a law that mandates there be at least five within a twenty metre stretch, and of course every single one of them is absolutely gorgeous. Lottie and Fizz would go mental for the chance to Instagram any one of them.

He chooses the one with a red bike stapled to the wall.

Muggles are great.

A little bell on the door jingles as he steps inside. Expecting a line like the one he and Liam had stood in for half an hour (only to be robbed blind), he’s startled to see just one person between him and the muggle currently ordering.

One recognisable person.

“Ah,” Louis dons what he hopes is an aloof little smile. “I was just talking about you.”

Harry Styles turns around and considers him. Harry’s always been good at that, Louis remembers. Even back in school, he’d always been able to whip out this look — like he was cataloging Louis’ thoughts and analysing every one. Louis worried he had been, for a while there. That was back when Louis was just an overwhelmed eleven year old who hadn’t figured magic out yet. He’d figured if wizards and witches were real, why not mind readers? And if mind readers were real, and if Harry was one, what was he hearing?

He found out after a few months there was no such thing as mind readers, or at least that Harry wasn’t one. The look had remained, though, and Louis had always felt uneasy under it.

To avoid it, he’d steered clear of Harry all the way up until third year. It had worked, too, until he’d got through at tryouts. A Gryffindor beater couldn’t very well avoid a Slytherin chaser forever, could he?

Here, in the coffee shop, Louis feels the old feeling come rocketing back. He lingers under the look for a long moment, until Harry finally reacts.

His left eyebrow goes up a little. “Were you?”

“Certainly was,” Louis nods. He comes up to Harry and stops, not thinking at all about how he has to lift his chin to look at him. It’s only a tiny bit. “Telling my friend about how we’re gonna smash the pants off you tonight.”

His words hang in the air just long enough for Louis to come up with a thousand and one less awkward ways he could have phrased himself.

Harry’s face dimples.

“Er,” Louis follows up, “so to speak.”

“Mhmm,” Harry says.

He wants to laugh, Louis can tell. Anyone else would be laughing outright by now, so Louis has to respect Harry a little for holding it in.

Then again, he and Harry aren’t friends. They aren’t really anything. Opponents? Enemies? They certainly always seem to end up on opposing teams; their houses in school, their Quidditch clubs after school, and the Cup teams they’ve been selected for. They’d definitely been rivals at Hogwarts, but only because Louis’ team was infinitely better at Quidditch than Harry’s was. So Slytherin won some games here and there, and sure, there was that business in fourth and fifth and sixth year when they won the House Cup, but Gryffindor always won it back in the end. That’s what matters.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the press tent?”

Harry frowns at him. His head tilts a little to the left, just like a golden retriever, or one of those slightly posher dogs that might suit Harry a bit better. A poodle, maybe.

“Am I?”

Harry’s asking a lot of questions instead of replying like a normal human being. It’s not really helping conversation flow.

“That’s what I heard.” Louis shrugs. “Apparently your team’s there.”

“Huh,” Harry’s head tilts to the side, considering. “Interesting.”

Louis frowns. “Shouldn’t you know? Being that it’s your team and everything?”

The papers had been ecstatic to announce Harry the captain of the British team. Youngest one yet, youngest in the history of the World Cup. Another glorious achievement from Britain's golden boy.

Harry shrugs. It’s startlingly infuriating.

“I’m not their boss,” he says, although he technically is. “They can do what they want.”

The muggle in front of them steps out of the way, focusing on negotiating their wallet and the change they’ve just been given. Harry steps forward without a pause.

Left to himself for a moment, Louis checks he actually remembered to bring his muggle money. He tries to keep some on him all the time, just in case, but sometimes he forgets. Once he’s satisfied this is not one of those times, he moves his attention to the back of Harry’s head.

He’s always been a tall one, but Louis hasn’t had the chance to consider him up close. Back at Hogwarts they’d spent their time hurling insults across the field — good natured ones, of course, it wasn’t the nineties. Outside of that they hadn’t had much to do with each other, didn’t share the same classes or move in the same circles.

Harry’s got lovely broad shoulders, he notices. He’s not got his robes on, probably due to the same regulations around the village that stopped Louis from apparating. Instead, he’s gone for a more casual look. His team colours, but in a soft looking jacket. It pulls across his shoulder blades like a dream and the sight of it reignites that same uneasy feeling from earlier.

When Harry steps aside, finished with his order, he looks to Louis expectantly.

Pink-cheeked, Louis clears his throat and steps forward. Harry hasn’t moved too far to the side, leaning against the bench with his hip, so when Louis reaches the till he gets a little closer than he expected. It makes his skin feel a little prickly. It does seem to indicate Harry isn’t finished with their conversation, though, which is a good sign considering how unhelpful he’s been in carrying it along.

Louis places his order, offering the barista a sunny smile and hoping he’s conveying how grateful he is for this shop and for the real, proper coffee it houses.

He pockets his change and shuffles out of the way of the person behind him.

“Does your team often book media appearances without you?”

“I guess I wouldn’t know, would I?” Harry replies and God, he loves a shrug doesn’t he? “Since I’m not there.”

Fair cop, Louis thinks.

“I reckon Favreau would kill us if we did that.”

Louis’ captain is a guy from his normal club so they know each other quite well. He’s not the captain of the _Quibs_ , though, and the new responsibility has clearly been a change of pace for the poor bloke. He’s a good lad, if a little high strung, and he’s the best one for the job, by far. Tournaments like this require organisation — something Louis’ always had a little trouble with. He probably wouldn’t kill them, not really. He’d be grumpy though.

“You think I should kill them?” Harry asks, dry.

“Nah,” Louis shakes his head. “You’re gonna be slaughtered on the field anyway. No reason to add insult to injury.”

There, much better. That’s the trash talk he’d been going for the first time.

“Ah, right,” Harry chuckles. “Sorry, I’ll leave it to you.”

Louis grins. “I’m just saying it’ll save you time in the long run.”

“Very kind of you.”

“I try.”

It’s an odd exchange, being an adult with someone who existed so wholly in Louis’ adolescent life. Even in the same profession, they’ve spent the last five years — blimey, they’re old — operating in different circles.

Louis has been in France, though.

The barista calls out Harry’s name and then Louis’ in quick succession. The cup is hot and warm in Louis’ hands, and smells exactly fucking right.

“You walking back?” Harry watches wryly as Louis sniffs at the little hole in the lid of his coffee.

“Sure am.” Louis takes a sip. It tastes as good as it smells.

“I’ll walk with you.”

They’ve technically already started walking. Without noticing, Louis has lingered at Harry’s side as they approach the exit. Harry gets there first, opening the door and stepping back, letting Louis through first.

“Ooh,” Louis raises a brow as he slips through the door. “Very gentlemanly.”

Harry laughs. He calls a thank you to the barista over his shoulder and follows Louis out the door.

“What’s turned you on to muggle coffee?” Louis asks when the door’s jingled close behind them.

Harry’s a pureblood. Louis remembers that much from his Hogwarts days, when he’d sat in the library and studied Harry’s family history. Research on the enemy, he’d called it. An idiot, Liam had called him in response.

“My sister. We went on a holiday a few months back, it’s all she drinks.”

Harry’s sister sounds like a clever girl. Louis likes her already.

“Where’d you go?”

They chat about Harry’s trip for most of the walk, sipping at their coffee as they do. Louis can feel it as they come upon the Cup grounds. It’s glamoured, charmed to keep the muggles away, and Louis’ got fifty-percent muggle blood. That part of him always feels proper queasy around spells like this.

He’s right. Seconds after the thought occurs to him they step through the boundary of the grounds, and the pitch and surrounding tents shimmer into view. The queasy feeling passes and Louis relaxes.

Only for a moment, though, because in the next, his coffee cup bursts into flames.

Louis shrieks.

It’s not hot, despite the green flames that lick up the sides of the cup. They curl around it, flickering upwards, searing through the cheap cardboard and devouring everything as they go. In an instant, it has dissolved in Louis’ hands, leaving only a pile of tingly green dust.

“What?” Louis’ head spins around frantically, physically searching for an explanation. “No! What happened?”

He looks to Harry, devastated, and expects to see a similar look of startled confusion on his face. He doesn’t though. Harry doesn’t look confused at all.

Harry’s own cup is as it had been before they’d crossed the barrier.

“Louis.” A frown creases the little space between Harry’s eyebrows. “What was in that?”

“My _coffee_.” Louis is literally going to cry.

It had been almost full, too. He’d only had a few sips!

“Sure,” Harry’s voice has gone off, heavier now, almost angry. “What was in your coffee?”

Louis frowns.

“Uh, coffee?” Is he going to have to explain the beans thing to Harry? “What is wrong with you? Are we just going to ignore my cup spontaneously combusting?”

Harry brings a hand up and grabs Louis’ elbow. Before Louis can even figure out what’s going on — is this the first time he’s ever touched Harry? Surely not. They’ve known each other for ten years! — Harry is pulling him aside and into the shadow of the nearest tent.

“Louis, that was the contaminant reaction.”

He sounds bizarrely serious for a man saying something that sounds so fucking dumb.

“Uh, okay?” Louis squirms a little under Harry’s hot gaze. “What’s that?”

“It’s a spell,” Harry huffs. “It’s how the committee makes sure no one’s taking performance enhancing potions. It destroys them as soon as they’re within the grounds.”

Louis snorts. That would mean—

Wait.

“Why are you laughing?” Harry is properly scowling now. “I saw you drinking that, Louis. You think I’m just going to pretend I didn’t?”

Louis starts to shake his head.

“Wait, hang on.”

Harry doesn't. “I thought you were better than that, Louis. I thought you respected the game. Have you been cheating the entire time?”

“I haven’t been cheating any of the time!” Louis hiss-shouts. “Shut up.” He needs to get his thoughts straight. “Just, wait. For a second.”

There’s still green powder on his hands. Green powder that used to be his coffee; his ordinary, muggle coffee. Only it’s just exploded into fucking flames, because apparently it wasn’t any of that at all.

Holy fuck. He’s got five hours til the biggest game of his life and he’s just taken an illegal potion.

“Fuck.”

Harry is still glaring at him, but the scowl has softened. His expressions shifted back to Harry’s old faithful; the calculating, mind reading one.

“You didn’t know?”

There’s a hollow feeling boring its way through Louis’ gut.

“No.” He feels small, all of sudden. “I didn’t know.”

Harry is quiet for a moment. It’s long enough for Louis to swear again. His hands are shaking now. Harry can probably feel it, where he’s still got Louis by the elbow. It’s intense, the realisation that these last five seconds are going to ruin his entire career. Everything he’s worked for, since he was fucking thirteen, is going to be gone. He’ll be disqualified, from the French team first, and from the _Quibs_ right after. The press is going to tear him to fucking pieces.

He just wanted a fucking coffee.

He shakes his hands, brushing the powder away from them. His movement gets frantic at the end, panicked like his jackrabbit heart. He just wants it _away_ — _off_ — _gone._

When he’s finished, Louis looks at Harry, hard.

“Did you do this?”

Harry takes a step back and releases his hold on Louis’ arm. He looks appalled. His expression, more than anything, is why Louis trusts him when he says, “No. Of course not. I would never.”

“Okay.” Louis swallows and looks down at his feet. “Sorry. I had to, like, ask.”

He’s been the only one with Louis this whole time but they both know he hasn’t once touched Louis’ drink. It went straight from the barista to Louis.

“God,” Louis says. He scrubs his hand through his hair, looking around but unable to settle. What the fuck is he going to do? “Fuck, okay.”

Harry’s just watching him.

Louis doesn’t look him in the eye. “Who do we tell?”

“What?”

Louis feels a little too caged in, a little too lost, for stupid questions.

“Who the fuck do we tell, Harry? The committee, or whatever, so they can like…”

Christ.

He’s finished.

Even if he goes to them and tells Merlin’s honest truth — that he was spiked, that he didn’t take anything on purpose, that he would _never_ — there’ll have to be an investigation. That could go on for months, and Louis won’t see a pitch the entire time. The public will make their minds up straight away, and even if he’s found innocent in the end the damage will already be done.

Liam’s going to be writing stories about him for the rest of the week. About all the potential he had, about how he’d squandered it for a cheap win. The pressure of going up against his childhood rival, they’ll say, was more than enough to get to him.

“You really didn’t know?”

“No, Harry! I didn’t fucking know, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry holds his hands up, defensive, like Louis’ gonna thwack him over the head with a broom or something. “Okay. I just had to be sure.”

Louis scoffs. His eyes are watering and he knows Harry can tell. They’re standing too close together for him to miss it. He doesn’t say anything because he knows his voice will crack if he does. He jams his teeth together instead, clenching his jaw and biting back all the angry, violent words that want to fly out of him.

He doesn’t notice Harry’s pulled his wand out until he’s pointing it at the green powder, which is now scattered around their feet. The spell he uses is unfamiliar, several latin words Louis doesn’t recognise and can’t translate. The powder glows yellow.

Harry swears.

Louis looks from the powder to Harry, eyes wide. “What?”

The powder goes green again, after a second. Harry keeps looking down at his wand.

“Harry.” Now Louis is the one to tug on Harry’s arm. “What? Tell me.”

“It’s Felix Felicis,” Harry says it quick, like ripping off a bandaid.

Louis stares at him. Thinking seems a harder task now, like the stress has turned the highways of his brain into jelly or something. It takes him a second to catch up.

“My coffee?”

Harry nods, sombre.

“Like the luck potion?”

“Yeah.”

Louis’ not super well versed in performance enhancing potions, to be fair. He’d have no idea what qualifies and what doesn’t  — he doesn’t take anything, end of. But a luck potion? That’s what he’s been dosed with?

“God!” Louis’ hands curl into fists, a fruitless attempt at channelling the panic that thrills through him. His bones feel too big for his fingers. “What does that even _mean?_ How the hell do you quantify _luck_?”

The universe provides him with no answers. Neither does Harry, who’s staring at him, at a loss.

Louis wipes at his stinging eyes with his sleeve.

“Magic is so dumb.”

He’s exposed, standing in front of Harry like this, with his sleeves pulled up over his hands and his future a bloody ruin. His old teachers are going to lose their minds. _I always knew,_ they’ll tell the world.

“Wait,” Harry’s hands are up again, like Louis’ a wild animal that may lash out at any second. “Okay, just wait. We can figure this out.”

Louis shoots him a look.

“What’s to figure out? I’m done for.”

His family’s going to be so disappointed with him.

“No, you’re not,” Harry’s hands are still up, but less defensive now. It’s like he’s trying to get the world to pause while he thinks.  “You’re not. Not yet.”

Something, a spark that’s quick and hot and hopeful, flares in Louis’ chest. The air around him gets real quiet as Louis holds his breath. Is Harry…?

“We can figure this out,” Harry starts to nod, convincing himself as well as Louis. “We’re grown, educated adults. We can do this. There’s got to be an antidote, right?”

He doesn’t sound entirely sure of himself, but he sounds sure enough Louis’ prepared to go with it.

“Right. Yeah, there’s got to be.”

Harry reaches out with both of his hands, rubbing Louis’ shoulders reassuringly. Louis does the same when one of his sisters forgets their jacket and gets cold. It’s a bit strange, and stirs the adrenalin boiling through Louis’ body, but it helps. They can do this, Louis thinks. They can fix this.

“Oh!” he says, suddenly inspired. “We should Google it!”

Harry stares at him. He blinks a few times.

“We should _what_?”

Fucking wizards.

✨

Google doesn’t come up with the results they’re looking for. They decide to go back to the cafe.

“We know who made it for you, we can go back and find him,” Harry says. “We can report him, or, or something.”

It’s as good a plan as any, especially considering Google hadn’t come up with the results. They turn around and head back the way they’ve just come. Harry does his best to keep Louis in good spirits.

“Hey Louis,” Harry is grinning, leadingly. It’s very suspicious. “How do you get rid of a rash?”

Louis sighs. “How?”

“With a Quid- _itch!_ ”

It’s sweet. Harry’s attempt at levity, that is, not the joke. Under any other circumstances Louis would probably offer him a little smile, thanking him at least for the effort. As it is, he can’t find the energy.

Harry frowns.

“Try not to stress too much, okay?” He claps Louis on the shoulder again, his hand lingering for a moment to squeeze before it drops away. “This is fixable, it is. Plus! Even if it isn’t, you didn’t take it on purpose. You were drugged.”

Louis’ not sure the committee is going to see it that way. They’re notoriously hard on shit like this, and rightly so. Once the public finds out they’ll be calling for someone’s head on a stick, and it’s probably going to be Louis’.

He doesn’t know what to say about being drugged so he ignores it all together.

“How does it even work?” He gestures around wildly, pointing at nothing but everything all at once. “None of this feels very lucky to me.”

Harry ponders that for a moment.

“I don’t know. Maybe we’ll know it when we see it?”

They’ve got five hours til the match. Probably closer to four and a half, actually. In three, he and Harry are going to be expected at their respective team’s changing rooms. It’s no time at all, when you look at it like that.

“You’re panicking again,” Harry’s watching him carefully. “I can tell.”

It startles Louis. It takes him flying back ten years, to those days when he’d been sure Harry could see straight into his head.

“You can?”

Harry tilts his head and gives a half shrug, just one of his shoulders coming up near his ear. “Sure. We have known each other quite a long time, Louis.”

“Well, sure.” Louis knows that, of course. “But we’re not like—”

He cuts himself off, just a moment too late. He has given Harry more than enough to make an educated guess. A bit of a pink stain blooms on his cheeks, and he keeps his gaze pointed away from Louis. Louis pretends he hasn’t noticed.

“I mean I know we weren’t _friends-_ friends, but I thought we were like,” he trails off though. “I don’t know.” He frowns to himself, pouting almost. “We’ve played against each other for years, Louis.”

“I know that.”

He _does_. He just doesn’t know what Harry means by pointing it out. Simply going to the same school and working in similar circles doesn’t quantify knowing the difference between someone feeling anxious and not.

Harry sighs.

“I suppose I do think of us as friends.” He says it like he’s owning up to something, his chin out a little, defiant.

Louis cracks his first smile since his coffee exploded.

“I’d like to be friends.”

He means it, too. Harry’s always been an enigma to him. Someone as good at the game as Harry is, one of the country’s best? Louis’ always been interested, intrigued by him. Merlin, he’d spent years trying to learn from him, to be honest.

“Alright.” Harry seems pleased. “Friends.”

The smile on his face makes Louis feel a little warmer than he has since this whole disaster started. It bubbles in him, like a soft drink that’s just been hissed open.

“Friends.”

“I’ve got another joke, you know.”

Louis smiles again. “Hit me.”

“Which side of a centaur has more hair?”

Louis narrows his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“The outside!”

Harry is practically giddy in his delivery and Louis can’t help but snort. At the sound of it, Harry looks even more pleased with himself.

“I take it back,” Louis is still laughing, though, so the effect is somewhat softened. “We’re not friends anymore.”

“Hey, no, you can’t do that.”

That actually startles a full chuckle from Louis, which stirs a somewhat reluctant smile from Harry in return. It’s not much, not much at all, but it helps. Laughing like this, complaining about bad jokes, it’s just enough a distraction from this mess that the tightness in Louis’ chest seems to loosen.

“Alright.” Louis casts his mind back to some of his sister’s favourite jokes. “I’ve got one.”

Harry’s eye light up.

“How many Slytherins does it take to stir a cauldron?”

“Tell me.”

“Just one,” Louis says. “They put their wand in the cauldron and the world revolves around them.”

He gets a proper pout for that one, Harry’s lower lip sticking out and all. It’s pink, Louis notices, and for a second Louis is stuck looking at it. Pink, or like a soft red. Very soft.

“You know,” Harry is suddenly very sanctimonious. “I thought you were better than those old fashioned prejudices.”

He’s got a little smirk on his face, though, so Louis can tell he’s not actually too fussed.

“Do you want to hear a secret?”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. “Always.”

“I heard that joke about Gryffindors, actually. Did a little creative editing myself.”

Harry laughs for a while. Long enough, actually, that they make it back to the village and down the narrow main street. Louis searches for the right cafe, and sure enough, there’s that red bicycle up on the wall.

The sight of it ruins the mood rather abruptly.

All they need to do is find the guy who gave them their coffees. Louis hadn’t paid him too much attention, had been distracted at the time by Harry and his shoulders, but he remembers a little. The guy was wearing a black t-shirt, with a black apron over the top, and he had a wee tattoo on his hand. Louis’ pretty sure he had a nose piercing, too.

He has to check. “Did he have a nose piercing?”

“Think so,” Harry points to the middle bit of his nose and pinches the cartlidge there to be extra clear. “One of these ones.”

“I always wanted one of those.”

“Did you?”

They’re just stalling now.

Louis squares his shoulders, sizing up the shop door like it’s about to throw a punch his way. He can do this. He can definitely, for sure, one-hundred-percent, do this.

“Alright.” He rubs his hands together. He’s got the odd urge to stretch like he does before a game. “I’ve got this.”

“Uh,” Harry reaches out and catches Louis’ wrist. “Do you even speak french?”

Louis scoffs. “Um, hello?” He points at himself, just to make sure it’s extra clear.  “ _Louis_?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You’re from Yorkshire.”

Weird fact for Harry to know, Louis thinks.

“That’s irrelevant.”

Harry’s face scrunches up. “It is not. We have to ask them some pretty complex questions, and we have to do it without being obvious.”

“I literally live here!”

“Your team uses language charms, everyone knows that.”

_Do they?_

“That doesn’t matter,” Louis splutters. “I’ve picked it up!”

“Prove it. Say something.”

Under pressure, all the french Louis does know seems to fly right out of his head. He panics, his brain making a flatline noise between his ears. His only option is to throw caution to the wind.

He goes for it.

“ _Bonjour.”_ He starts strong. “ _Mon…  charmant… chou_.”

“You just called me your lovely cabbage.”

“Oh, so now _you_ speak french?”

Harry rolls his eyes, and turns his attention on the shop. He shoves his sleeves up to his elbows and, in the second Louis is fixed on the sight of Harry’s tan forearms, he says, “wait here.”

He’s stomping off before Louis can stop him. For a second, Louis flounders, unsure of what to do at all, before his brain catches up and he races after Harry. He slips inside the cafe about four seconds after Harry, which is more than enough time for Harry to get to counter and say hello to the person there.

It’s a different person than the one who’d served them. They smile up at Harry when he starts talking, and seem more than happy to chat. It becomes quickly clear Harry’s french is leaps and bounds ahead of Louis’. He would only hinder the conversation if he tried to join in, so he doesn't. He hangs back near the door instead, and does his best not to get in anyone’s way.

It’s only because he’s looking around that he catches sight of the girl coming out from the other side of the counter. She’s got two coffees in her hands and a plate of food resting on her forearm. For a second, Louis just admires her talent. Anyone in the wizarding world would just magic that shit and save themselves the trouble. There’s something inspiring, Louis has always thought, about how muggles figure it out all on their own.

It’s just as he’s pondering this thought that her shoes catches the back of a nearby chair.

She tumbles forward almost comically, hinged at the ankle by the chair and unable to save herself. Louis reacts without thinking, lunging in her direction, but he’s too far away — or, shit, he thought he was. His own foot slips, there’s a spill of water he hadn’t noticed, but he doesn’t fall. He skids, instead, sliding across the floor towards her at a pace he’d never have dreamt of. He regains his footing right in front of her, just in time to catch her under the arms. She’s kept a solid grip of the coffee — hasn’t had the time to drop them yet — but the plate has wobbled too far in the wrong direction.

He doesn’t even see it himself, the way his arm swings down and catches the plate, but it does. He catches it.

Everything is still for a moment.

Holy shit, Louis thinks.

The girl says something in french. Louis doesn’t know every word she says but he knows a few: _holy shit,_ and _amazing,_ and _thank you._

She sets the coffee down on the closest table so she can take the plate from him. Numbly, he hands it over. None of the food has spilled. None of it.

He’s got the attention of the entire cafe. He can feel their stares on the back of his head. It’s a similar feeling to flying on the pitch, in front of a crowd, but way less fun. The only look he can bring himself to return is Harry’s — Harry, who’s stopped his conversation for a moment just to gape, apparently.  

He slinks back to his corner.  

Everything starts back up again after a moment and finally people look away from Louis and his red hot cheeks.

“Okay,” Harry returns to his side after a few minutes. “This is gonna be a good news, bad news situation.”

Louis braces himself. “Bad news first.”

“The guy who made our coffee’s finished his shift.”

Of course he bloody has.

“And the good news?”

Harry looks at Louis like he’s crazy or something. When Louis blinks back at him, with no clue what he’s supposed to be understanding, Harry shrugs like it’s obvious.

“Well, it looks like your luck is kicking in, which will hopefully make this whole thing much easier.”

✨

Louis begins to properly panic very soon after that.

There’s no time, is the thing. Under any other circumstances he might feel able to remain calm and track his poisoner down, but today it feels impossible. The biggest game of his life is in a few hours, his career is hovering precariously on the edge, and he just — he can’t — he can’t _think_.

He paces in the street outside of the cafe. His head is in his hands, his fingers tugging at his hair as he moves frantically around. He can’t stay still. He’s ready to crawl out of his skin and the only way to battle that seems to be with movement.

Harry hovers around him, like a bee trying to settle on a windy flower. He catches Louis in his hands after a few seconds of trying, his hands coming down heavy on Louis’ shoulders.

Unable to keep his feet moving, Louis immediately starts to bounce.

“I’m fucked,” he looks at Harry, eyes wide. “Harry, I’m absolutely fucked.”

Harry shushes him. His thumbs are rubbing at Louis’ shoulders, up and down, up and down, and he’s ducked his head a little to get on Louis’ level.

“You’re not fucked, okay? We’ll figure this out.”

“Literally how?”

Harry bites his lip. It distracts Louis, just a second, because they’re standing close. He’s never noticed before, the way a bitten lip turns a little white under the pressure, before blooming back to a lovely flush pink.

“I don’t know, but we will, alright?”

Blind optimism has never really been a friend to Louis.

“The game’s in like two hours,” he reminds Harry.

“More like three.”

Louis lets out a shrill laugh.

“Three hours is not better.”

Harry tilts his head again.

“It’s a _little_ better.”

Louis is gonna vibrate out of his body. Somehow, Harry can tell.

“I know it’s not much,” he starts talking before Louis can explode. “But it’s time, okay? It’s _some_ time.”

Louis nods, but it's more because he feels like he has to. His eyes can’t find a single spot to settle — Harry’s lips, or his eyes, or the light stubble on his chin, the muscles in his neck. It is time, sure, but he doesn’t know what to do with it. They’ve got three hours, fine, but what does it matter when they don’t have any plausible way of fixing this?

He asks Harry as much.

“I don’t know,” Harry pauses, a little frown pulling at the spot between his eyebrows as he thinks. “We should start with an antidote.”

Louis swallows. “An antidote?”

“We need to know if there is one. I know your muggle box didn’t know, but it’s not magic so it doesn’t have all the facts.”

Louis’ phone. That’s what Harry’s talking about.

“There’s got to be a library nearby,” Harry goes on. “We’ll go there and we’ll figure out if it is reversible. If it’s not, we’ll take it from there.”

Shaky, Louis nods.

“Do you have anything you need to do before the game? Like team meetings or anything?”

“Just the pre-game meeting.”

“Alright, same. We can work with that.”

Harry’s confidence is infectious, and slowly Louis feels his heart rate slow back down. He has, entirely subconsciously, timed his breathing to the gentle movement of Harry’s thumbs on his arms.

“How do we find a library?” Louis asks.

Harry thinks for a moment. “There’s gonna be some nearby,” he says, “but I’m not sure how big they’ll be out here. They might not have what we need.” He moves his head a little, gesturing at the village around them with a significant look. He’s got a point. It is a bit rural out here.

“What about Paris?” Louis’ voice is a little shaky. “We’re outside the boundary, we could apparate.”

Harry starts nodding as soon as Louis mentions Paris. “Yeah. That’s a good idea.”

“I don’t know any specific ones, though. We’d have to look it up.”

“Right. Does your box know?”

Louis sighs and looks at his phone. “It’ll tell me about muggle libraries, not magic ones.”

Harry purses his lips.”Hmm.”

For probably the several billionth time in his lifetime, Louis wishes there was some sort of magic Google. Considering how often Louis heard wizards and witches boasting about how advanced and clever they were, their society was actually so behind it wasn’t funny. He’d thought that a lot when he’d moved to France, actually. All he wanted to do was know where the best flying shops were, so he could buy the equipment he needed, and instead of being able to look up customer reviews and experiences he’d been stuck with an archaic—

“Oh! The guide!”

Harry blinks.

“I’ve got a guide to Paris!” A swell of emotion sends a rush to Louis’ head, and he starts bouncing again. He’s not actually sure when he stopped. He brings his hands up to grab at Harry’s wrists. “They gave me one when I started for the _Quibs_!”

Harry grins, squeezing Louis’ shoulders.

“Good, that’s good! Where is it?”

“At my flat!” Louis immediately deflates. “Shit. Where in my flat?”

He racks his brains. His flat is a mess, the kind of mess that gathers when you live alone and rarely have house guests. He hasn’t used that guide _ever,_ he’d glanced at it maybe once when he’d moved in, which means it’s probably lost under the mountains of junk Louis has slowly accrued since joining his team.

It’s not impossible though. It’s definitely not impossible.

Caught up, he pulls at Harry’s wrist until it’s off Louis’ shoulder and Louis can thread his fingers through Harry’s.

“Hold on.”

He disapparates.

When they arrive, Harry looks slightly shocked by Louis’ abruptness. His hair, absurdly, looks a little windswept. He blinks a few times, acclimating to the sudden change in brightness; Louis’ little flat, with its curtains drawn and lights off, is pretty different to the sunny street they’d just been standing in.

“Louis,” Harry hisses when he comes back to himself. “Someone could have seen!”

Oh yeah, Louis thinks.

“They probably didn’t.”

The street was pretty empty. Louis knows because he’d been frantically looking all over it, while he’d searched for answers to his predicament. If people had been in the street, he would have seen them.

Harry doesn’t seem pleased.

“You should tell people before you disapparate.”

Louis squeeze his hand before he drops it. “Sorry, I’m a bit spun out.” That much Harry can probably already tell because his face goes much softer. “I’ll definitely ask next time.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Next time?”

“Well, yeah,” Louis goes red when he realises what he’s said, his plain assumption he and Harry will be spending more time together. “Obviously, I’m the superior apparator.”

Harry frowns. “How’d you figure?”

“You’ve got—” he gestures at Harry’s everything, “—all this to negotiate.”

He’s a bit flustered, okay.

“All this!?” Harry looks scandalised.

“Yeah,” Louis digs himself deeper. “Everyone knows tall people can’t apparate.”

“That is not even a bit true.”

Louis shakes his head. “Sure it is. Short people have less to bring with them.”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Louis scoffs. “You just called my phone a muggle box.”

“That’s what it is!”

“Look, whatever,” Louis has successfully navigated away from the future apparation plans discussion and he counts that as a win. “We have to find this bloody guide. It’s here somewhere.”

Harry takes his first proper look around as Louis gets to the coffee table. There’s three or four used mugs there, stacked on top of piles and piles of muggle junk mail and old newspapers. As Louis starts to shift through piles he realises the state of the room. Christ, does he have no shame?

“M’really sorry about the mess,” he says to Harry as he shuffles through the piles. When he finds nothing on the coffee table he gets down on his hands and knees, crawling around the floor and bending over to look under the sofa.

Harry coughs.

It must be the dust.

“I always want to clean, but I’m rubbish at cleaning charms and doing it the muggle way takes so bloody long.”

Harry clears his throat. His voice sounds a little funny when he says, “uh, Louis?”

“It’s got to be here somewhere,” Louis shuffles over to the other couch to peer under it. He finds a few pizza menus from the muggle place down the road, some spare sickles and a whole lot more dust. “I promise, normally it’s in a better state than this. I never let it get like _gross-_ gross _.”_

He doesn’t. He doesn’t leave food out. If some slightly old cups of tea are the worst of it, he’s miles ahead of (Lottie) other people.

“You should see my sister’s place. I won’t name names cause they’re actually quite big fans of yours, but one of them’s literally the most disgusting person I’ve ever met. Like her _kitchen_ —”

He stops, abruptly noticing Harry is now towering over him. Louis’ basically crawled all the way to his feet.

“Uh. Sorry. Just want to check under the telly…?”

He trails off at the look on Harry’s face. Louis’ not sure if the angle is throwing him off — and to be fair, it’s a little distracting to look at Harry from this direction and think about _other_ circumstances under which he might get this particular viewpoint — but it looks like he’s laughing. Or close to it, at least.

“Lou?”

Oh, it’s _Lou_ now is it?

“You do remember you’re a wizard, right?”

Louis frowns, immediately offended.

“Uh. yes thanks.” Wizards are always like this, when they see someone with magic doing a little hands on work. He leans up a little, resting back on his haunches and putting his hands on his hips. He wants to make sure Harry knows how miffed he is. “Just because I don’t use magic for everything, doesn’t mean I’m bloody inept. God, what is it with you lot? You’re all so afraid to get your knees dirty, it’s just a little mess for Christ’s sake.”

Harry shoots him a very tired look, one Louis’ not too sure he deserves.

“What’s that look for?”

Harry rolls his eyes and pulls his wand out. He waves it around, eyes on Louis the entire time, and says, “ _Accio_ _Paris Guide_.”

It shoots out from under the fridge, flying through the air and smacking Louis in the side of the head. It’s just parchment, so it’s not a solid hit or anything, but it’s definitely a shock, so Louis still reels from the impact.

“Christ!” He shouts right before he loses his balance and topples over.

Harry laughs far too loudly for Louis’ little living room.

“How is _that_ lucky?” Louis demands from the floor. “Tell me!”

Harry uses his sleeve to wipe at his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis huffs and picks up the guide from where it’s landed on the floor next to him. “Yuk it up.”

He stands up, brushing off his knees as he does, and opens the guide. He’s blushing a bit, can feel the heat of it in his cheeks, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. Harry’s laughter dies down to a barely suppressed giggle, his eyes glittering with mirth.

It’s definitely not cute, or distracting.

Louis focuses on the guide.

There’s a few magical libraries in Paris, it turns out. The closest one doubles as a muggle library.

“ _Reesh-eh-lew_ ,” Louis sounds it out.

Harry snatches the guide away from him. “You’ve literally lived here for ages, Louis,” he says. “How can you be so rubbish at French?”

Louis pouts. “It’s not been _that_ long.”

Harry doesn’t look up from the guide, but he does hum, a thoughtful little sound. “Five months a year, right?”

Louis startles.

It takes Harry a beat longer to react, but he does. He goes still, and his eyes jump up from the pages in front of him to stare at Louis. He blinks, once, twice, and doesn’t say anything. .

“Uh,” Louis frowns. “Yeah. Right.”

Harry clears his throat noisily and looks back down at the guide.

“ _Richelieu_ Library,” he says, his pronunciation ten years ahead of Louis’. “This says there’s a hidden entrance on the back staircase landing. A revealing spell should do the trick.”

He lifts his head up to shoot Louis a pointed look. His more than familiar knowledge of Louis’ contract with the _Quibs_ will go ignored, apparently.

“You’re not allowed to apparate, but there’s a public portkey two blocks over we can use.”

“Can we apparate to the portkey?”

Harry’s frown tells Louis everything he needs to know.

Unfortunately, taking the muggle route means leading Harry further through his little flat. The corridor down towards his room isn’t too bad, but his washing baskets been left out and, of course, some of Louis’ pants are squat on top. They’re clean, thank god, but Louis’ blushes furiously nonetheless. He steers Harry in the other direction, towards the exit. There’s a shoe rack at his door, but not a single shoe actually lives there. Instead, almost all of the shoes Louis owns are splayed out right next to it, blocking the door Louis barely ever uses.

Louis hastily shoves them out of the way, apologising as he goes.

“You know,” Harry sounds thoughtful, “you apparate quite a lot for someone who hates magic so much.”

Louis, who’d finally got his stupid front door open and had stepped back to let Harry go first, shoots Harry his most scandalised look.

“I don’t _hate_ magic!” He says it so quickly the words seem to stumble over his lips. “What the hell?”

Harry shrugs as he steps through the open door and into the narrow, rickety hallway. He’s got his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.

“You just don’t seem to like it very much.”

Louis follows him out into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind him. He thinks about the day so far, every panicked moment of it, and remembers the several times he’d been more than slightly negative about magic and the magical world. Well, he thinks. He’s had a good reason, hasn’t he?

“I do like it.” It feels important Harry understand where he’s coming from. “It just annoys me sometimes.”

When he’s been poisoned is definitely one of those times. Or when they add one-hundred enchantments to a coffee when it’s already the perfect beverage just on it’s own.

He lets Harry lead them down the stairs. It’s only two floors, Louis’ little building, one flat neatly packed on top of the other. It’s not like it’s an exhausting walk, but there is a fine layer of dust on the stairs indicating just how rarely Louis can be bothered to make the actual trek.

“Why’s it annoy you?”

“Just does. It’s not got any rules.”

Harry hums again. Louis can tell, he just can, Harry’s got that same look on his face again. The thoughtful one, the one that seems to see through Louis in an instant. It must be luck Louis’ stood behind him.

“Didn’t know you were the type for rules,.”

Louis can feel his cheeks growing a little warm. “I’m not, it’s just. Sometimes I just like it when things make sense, you know? Like it’s just an end product, you know? You do something, you want something and you can just have it. But, like, there’s no explanation how you got it. You just did.”

He’s never been good at articulating his thoughts on magic. He doesn’t have to think about it often, if he’s honest. At home everything is muggle focused, especially considering Dan and Ernest and Doris. Louis’ a bit jealous of them sometimes, of their opportunity to grow up like a normal kid.

He’s never seen the use in moaning about it though.

“I don’t know, it’s hard to explain,” he finishes awkwardly, right as they come to the bottom of the stairs. There’s a tiny little lobby room, barely enough room for one of them, certainly not enough for the two of them.

Harry _is_ tall, isn’t he? Louis tries not to press up too much against his back. He’s not like a giant — Louis’ not actually that short thanks — but Harry’s definitely got a few inches on him.

“I sort of get it.” Harry fiddles with the building door for a moment before figuring it out and stepping through. On the street, he turns to look back at Louis. Sure enough, when Louis sees Harry’s face, he finds that same damn look. “Haven’t thought of it like that before. It’s always just _been._ ”

His gaze is just a little too probing for Louis to feel one-hundred-percent comfortable under it. He feels as if he’s under a spotlight, like he’s unzipped his head and laid his brain out for Harry to inspect. Maybe Harry doesn’t need to know why Louis’ always been a little bit uncomfortable with magic.

“Well.” Louis keeps his voice light, an attempt to lighten the mood a little. “There ya go. Something to think about.”

Harry starts to walk down the street, slowly though, as if he’s waiting for Louis to fall in step. When Louis does, the pace picks up a little.

“What is it about apparating?” Harry presses on. “That’s just as unexplainable as a spell, right? Like, how it works?”

Louis shoves his hands in his pockets, then quickly removes them again when he realises he’s mirroring Harry. “Not really. I know what happens when I apparate. Kind of. I’m there at least, I know where I go.”

“So what’s the difference to a spell?”

Louis thinks for a moment before he replies. He’s not been too eloquent, thus far, and he really wants Harry to understand.

“Right, so like, with a spell,” Louis begins carefully, “like a cleaning spell or summat. You do the spell and the mess vanishes, right? But like, where does it go?”

“It doesn’t go anywhere. It just vanishes.”

“Yeah, but like, to _where_?”

These are questions that’ve plagued Louis for a long time. It has to go somewhere, right? A void, or out of space, or some little broom closet that’s been set aside for everything that’s ever been vanished in all of history.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s got to go somewhere, that’s my point. Otherwise it just ceases to exist. But it’s dust, it’s matter. What are we doing that can just, like, _erase_ something from existence?”

Harry thinks for a while. He’s frowning a little, even biting his lower lip, with the concentration of it all.

“I have to be honest,” he says after they’ve walked silently for a little way, “I don’t really know what you mean by matter.”

Right, Louis thinks. Harry’s a pureblood.

“Tell you what,” Louis’ heart thumps. “After the Cup, we’ll go to a muggle science class.”

A smile blooms bright on Harry’s face. “Really?”

“Sure,” Louis’ damn cheeks are heating up again. “Then you’ll know what I’m talking about and you’ll realise I’m not totally mad.”

Harry looks excited by the idea. He’s got a pretty pink stain to his cheeks, and the corners of his eyes have gone all crinkled.

“I don’t think you’re mad, Louis.”

Louis ducks his head. “Glad to hear it.”

They round the corner of the block and come to the mouth of a narrow alleyway. There’s a red fire hydrant on the curb.

“Is this it?” Louis can’t see anything particularly magic looking.

“Nah, it’s gotta be something we can pick up.” Harry pulls one of his hands out of his pockets, bringing the little city guide out with it. He flicks it open again and studies it for a moment. “We’re looking for a little pot plant. It’s got a golden barrel cactus in it.”

“A golden barrel cactus?”

Someone, somewhere, is having a laugh. How the hell are they supposed to know what a — ?

“There it is!”

Harry stows the guide and moves swiftly down the alley. Halfway through and on the left there’s a little window, clearly sitting snug at the back of someone’s house. They’ve decorated it with ten or fifteen different little plants.

That doesn’t sway Harry though. He points to one of the plants with confidence.

Louis tries very hard not to find it endearing. “Bit of a horticulturalist, are we?”

Harry’s lovely smile comes out again when he nods.

“You’ve turned out to be quite useful in a pickle, you know.” Louis comes up to his side, looking down at the plant.

He glances at Harry. Those dimples are something else.

“Right,” he looks away again. “The little round one?”

Harry nods.

“Hold my hand,” Louis reaches out with his right hand, offering it to Harry. Still wearing that sweet little grin, Harry takes it without comment. Their fingers thread together naturally, the warmth from Harry’s skin reassuring in a way.

Louis reaches for the portkey with his other hand, bending a little as he does so. Harry stays securely at his side while Louis figures out how to approach the plant without injuring himself.

Whose dumb idea was it to make a portkey something so difficult to touch?

“It’s the pot that’s the actual portkey,” Harry explains when Louis hesitates for a touch too long. “Has to be an inanimate object.”

“Right, right.”

Taking hold of the pot of the plant is far easier, and faced with such a speedy resolution to his problem, Louis takes it without really thinking. All of a sudden there is a swooping feeling in his stomach, as he and Harry fly through _who the hell knows_ and arrive halfway across Paris.

Harry stumbles a little on the landing, his front bumping against Louis’ side as he hastily regains his balance.

“Merlin,” Harry sounds a little breathless. “You like to catch a guy off guard, don’t you?”

Louis smiles sweetly. “Nah, just you.”

His tone misses the mark again, same as it had with Liam earlier, and instead of sounding clever Louis sounds a little — well, not clever. He feels his ears go hot and looks away.

Taking stock of where they’ve landed is as good a distraction as any.

They’re in another narrow alley, only this one is backed by a tall green hedge on one side. The other must be the wall of the library, Louis thinks, taking note of the tall and weathered bricks. They must go up thirty or forty metres. Half way up Louis can see what looks like huge windowsills. He’d have to back up to get a good look, though, which is encouraging. It means anyone looking out will have missed him and Harry.

“How much time’ve we got?”

Neither he or Harry are wearing a watch. Harry looks at him a little bit helplessly before Louis remembers he’s got his phone.

“Okay, it’s eleven-thirty,” Louis answers his own question. “My team’s meeting in the changing rooms at two, how about yours?”

“Same.”

They’ve got two and a half hours. Two and a half hours, and they haven’t even managed to find out if there _is_ a cure yet, let alone figured out how to find it. Louis’ family will be at the grounds by now, probably out exploring the food stalls set up for the fans. They’ll head for the stands early, too, to try and skip the rush. They’ll all be there waiting to see him.

Dread begins to curl back around Louis’ organs, snaking through his body and squeezing tight. The air in his lungs turns soupy and he clenches his jaw, breathing roughly through his nose to try and get himself back under control.

Harry doesn’t blink, though. He just keeps on smiling his sunny smile. “That’s heaps of time!”

He loops his arm through Louis’ and tugs him down, following the wall of the library until they come round the corner.

The front of the library is breathtaking, with sprawling gardens and a path made of white pebbles. It reminds Louis of Versaille, which reminds him again of the coming game. The French national pitch was modelled after the bloody palace, after all.

“This is lovely,” Harry says. “Looks organised, too. I bet we’ll have our answer in no time.”

There is not a single soul out the front of the library, by which Harry could make any sort of judgment about their organisation skills. He’s laying it on thick, but Louis appreciates it.

Harry leads them to the large front doors and through.

“Merlin,” Harry breathes.

Louis just stares.

Typical French, Louis thinks, making a library that looks like this. It’s absolutely bloody gorgeous, with huge marble pillars that tower high into elegant arched domes. The ceiling, if you can call it that, is made up of huge glass panes that let the sunlight stream right in. It’s filled with rows of ornate wooden desks, decorated with lovely muggle lamps.

It’s the fanciest library Louis’ ever seen in his life. It smells right, though, exactly as a library is supposed to; like old books and cold stone.

A lady to their left sees them gaping and quickly approaches.

“Can I help you there, gentlemen?”

This is always a tricky bit. Louis is rubbish at telling who’s a muggle and who’s not. He does his best assessment — she’s not holding any sort of phone, but Louis can’t see a wand in her pockets or anything.

“Ah, yes please,” Harry smiles at her. “We’re trying to find the restricted section.”

They are?

The woman smiles at them though.

“Certainly. This way.”

She leads them through the middle of the large reading room, beneath the domed glass roof. She makes a couple of turns and they stay tight on her heels, slowing as they move past the main area and nearer to a narrow corridor of stairs.

“It’s just up here,” she tells them. “Be careful of the top steps, though, they can be a little wobbly.”

They thank her and she leaves them to it. Harry goes for the stairs first, so Louis rushes to keep up. “How do you know it’s the restricted section?”

“It’s a pretty standard code with libraries like this,” Harry keeps his voice low. The corridor walls are made of cool sandstone and their words bounce off it, echoing. “When there are muggles about you ask for the restricted section and it’ll generally take you to the magical texts.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Louis’ not a frequent library visitor, to be fair. He can probably be excused for not knowing the secret-anti-muggle codes.

They come to the top of the stairs quite quickly. From the number they’ve climbed, it feels as if they’re only on the second or third floor, but Louis knows better than to trust his senses where magic is concerned.

Harry pauses before the landing though. He reaches out to still Louis too, steadying him when he bumps soundly into Harry’s back. Once he’s sure on his feet again, Louis peers around Harry’s shoulder.

There’s a wooden door, left ajar, which opens into a small closet. Louis can see some toilet cleaner, and a mop.

“There’s nothing here.”

Harry isn’t bothered though. He’s crossed one of his arms across his body, resting the other on top it it with his hand to his chin. His eyes scan the steps in front of them.

“Everything alright?”

“Give me a second.” Harry pulls out his wand. “She mentioned the top steps, I can only assume they’re enchanted to hide the real entrance.”

Of course.

Harry figures it out quickly. He waves his wand, but doesn’t say anything. This spell must be more reliant on his physical movements. It works.

The door fades away and an entirely new room shimmers into view. This one is smaller than the reading room downstairs, but equally grand. Huge arched windows line the walls, inlaid with stained glass that bathes the room in a rainbow of colourful light. The characters portrayed in the glass there are moving, of course. They look like scholars, though Louis doesn’t recognise any of them. One of them looks to Louis and brings a finger to his mouth, shushing him.

“We haven’t said anything!”

Harry shushes him now. He’s laughing, though, so his is decidedly nicer. Without looking at Louis, he reaches back and takes Louis’ hand. He leads Louis away from the grumpy window, closer to the shelves of books. Once they’re close, he stops and looks at Louis expectantly.

“Which way?”

“Uh,” Louis looks around the room, lost. “How am I supposed to know?”

“You’ve been spiked with a luck potion, Louis. Which way feels lucky?”

Again, Louis feels compelled to whinge about just how dumb this stupid potion is. Harry’s heard enough of that, though. He’s probably got the point.

Undaunted — a little daunted — he puts his faith in the magic, closes his eyes, and walks forward.

He bumps into a writing table.

“Okay,” Harry settles his hands on Louis’ shoulder, pulling him back to where he’d been standing. “It’s not like a guidance system.”

“You’re the one who said I had to feel it!”

“Sure, but not like that.”

Louis may cry again. It’s getting to that point.

“How about this, come this way.” Harry’s voice stays gentle, just like his touch when he takes Louis’ arm again. He guides him across the room, around the tables and to one of the closest shelves. “Maybe if we just pick one, it’ll be the right one. That’s lucky, right?”

Louis huffs. “It’s a library, Harry, it’s going to have a categorising system. It’s definitely going to be at _least_ in alphabetical order. We’re not going to find the right book by—”

He glances to his left.

 _Gannidott’s Guide to Complex Potions and Their Antidotes_ is sitting on the shelf, right at his eyeline. It’s purple, with the title text a glittering orange, seemingly designed that way just to catch the eye.

“Perfect!” Harry follows his eyeline, and lights up. He snatches it off the shelf and flicks it open to the contents page. His index finger tracks the page, guiding his eye as he scans the text. “Okay, one second.”

The book has some heft and Harry struggles opening it to the right page. He manages it when he gets the base of the book balanced on his belly, sticking his chest out a little to keep it steady.

The finger starts scanning again. He reads silently, and his quietness allows Louis to become intensely aware of all the other noises in the room. One of the witches sitting near them is scratching her nail absently at the corner of her writing desk. Across near the window, another witch is tapping her foot absently. She’s got some muggle headphones on, a stark juxtaposition to the rest of the room and its ancient contents.

Louis rocks on his heels. “Anything?”

Harry’s face gets closer and closer to the book as he reads. “Working on it, hang on.”

His finger stops on the page. Louis swallows.

“Okay,” Harry says. “Felix Felicis, here it is.”

“What does it say?”

Harry doesn’t reply and Louis can’t wait, so he comes around to Harry’s side. He tugs on the book a little, tilting it in his direction so that they can both read.

 

 _F_ _elix Felicis, also called ‘Liquid Luck’, is a potion that brings the drinker good_  
_fortune for a period after ingestion. Brewed for the first time by Zygmunt Budge_  
_in the early fourteenth century, the potion is very difficult to make, disastrous_  
_if made wrong, and requires six months to stew before it is ready to be_  
_consumed. Highly toxic in large quantities, the potion is to be used sparingly._  
_Side effects include_ _giddiness_ _, recklessness and dangerous overconfidence._  
_It is, of course, banned in all organised competitions, such as Quidditch, along_ _  
_ with all other methods of cheating.

 

Louis lets out a low little whine, dropping back down onto his heels. It’s hard to look away from the book, especially the bit about cheating. “Harry, we know all of this.”

Harry flips the page. “There might be more.”

He turns the page back again, though, re-reading what they’ve already read. He wouldn't be doing that if there was any more information.

Louis lets his back thump against the bookshelf behind him. It’s sturdy, doesn’t even budge under his weight, so Louis drops his head back too. It thumps hollow on the spine of several books.

“Fuck.”

His eyes are hot, his nose feeling almost blocked. His shoulders deflate, his arms feeling too heavy, dropping low at his sides.

“Don’t—” Harry shakes his head, still looking at the book. His eyes are squinting with concentration, furrowed lines squished along his forehead.. “Try not to panic. We’ll find something.”

“There’s no time.”

“There is,” Harry shuffles a little, going back to the main contents page. “There’s got to be.”

The world doesn’t work like that, Louis wants to say. There’s not an answer to everything, there’s not always a fix.

“We have to be back at the grounds soon. There’s no use in you missing the game too.”

He can only imagine the reaction if Louis keeps Harry from playing. He’ll never be welcome on British soil again. Louis Tomlinson, not just a cheater, but a saboteur as well. To his own country, no less.

He has to get Harry back to the Cup on time. That’s one crisis Louis _can_ fix. And who knows, France might still win. It’s not like Louis is the kingpin holding the team together or anything. They’ll bring someone off the bench, Bisset maybe, or Rousse.

Harry lifts his head from the book for the first time, fixes Louis with a determined look.

“Neither of us are missing this game, Louis.”

Louis sighs. Or, well, he tries to sigh. What comes out is closer to a dry little sob, and the sound of it brings heat to his cheek. He looks at his feet.

“That’s nice of you to say,” Louis clears his throat, “but I don’t really see where we go from here.”

“We’ll find something.”

“What if we don’t, though?”

“We will.” Harry lifts the book, shifting it so the pages face Louis. “It says here that everything the drinker attempts will be successful.”

Louis shrugs, helpless. “That’s not been my experience.”

“It has,” Harry says. “We found the guide, didn’t we? And the library, and this book? It’s working.”

“The book doesn’t help though! It’s got nothing in there about an antidote.”

Harry swallows. Louis watches his adam’s apple bob. “Maybe, like, we’ve been thinking about this the wrong way. Maybe there isn’t an antidote.”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

“No, like,” Harry huffs as he flips the book back over, shuffling through the pages again, “we’ve been looking for one specific to this potion. But it’s a luck potion, who wants an antidote for a luck potion?”

None of this is reassuring. He and Harry are saying the same thing, why are they even arguing?

“No one,” Louis says, “so there’s no use wasting anymore time looking for one.”

“Not for a specific one.” Harry finds what he’s looking for, stopping on a page much further into the book. “But maybe there’s a general antidote, something that works on all potions.”

Louis frowns. “Do they even have those?”

“Course they do. Didn’t you do Potions?”

Louis hated Potions, actually. “Stopped after fifth grade. My O.W.L.s weren’t good enough.”

“We covered general antidotes in first year, Louis.”

Louis scoffs. “So I was eleven. And you expect me to remember that?”

Harry hums, a noise that is neither positive or negative. The book has all of his attention now. His finger is doing that thing again. “A bezoar might work.”

“The goat stone?”  There, he remembers _something._ “I thought that was just for poisons.”

“It’s been used as a general antidote before.”

Louis mulls that over. He doesn’t trust this enough to feel optimistic. “Okay, but where are we going to find a bezoar.”

Harry snaps the book shut. A little cloud of dust rises from the pages, and they get a few nasty looks for the noise.

“It’s your lucky day, Louis. We’re going to ask for one.”

He puts the book away, his smile so wide that Louis feels a little concerned for him. It’s almost manic with determination. Harry’s walk echoes that feeling, his arms swinging as he practically stomps into the middle of the library.

He surveys everyone, his shoulders held back and his chin held high.

“Does anyone know where we might find a bezoar?”

There are only four other people in the library, and they all stare at Harry blankly.

“It’s no use, Harry, we should just—”

Harry shushes him.

Louis’ getting _really_ sick of being shushed.

“You try,” Harry nudges Louis with his elbow.

“What?” The stinging behind Louis’ eyes is really threatening to start something now. He blinks fast, trying to stifle it. “Harry, you heard them. They don’t have it.”

The only choice left is to go to the committee. If he’s upfront about it, with Harry as his witness, he may be granted some sort of leniency. He won’t be flying today. That is thoroughly lost to him.

Harry takes Louis’ hand in his. His thumb soothes over the back of Louis’ wrist. “Try,” he says. “Please.”

Defeated, Louis sighs.

“Sorry,” he says to the library patrons. He looks like an absolute idiot, but it’s not really as if he’s got anything more to lose today. “Just confirming. Anyone know where we could get a bezoar? Got one on you, maybe?”

He chuckles. It’s a bad joke, Harry doesn’t laugh.

He should probably text his family before he speaks to the committee. They deserve a heads up and they shouldn’t be in the stands when the news breaks. Quidditch fans can be absolutely feral, sometimes.

He’s fishing for his phone in his pocket when someone across the room clears their throat.

It’s a little old lady, wearing robes of deep purple, with hair a silver grey. She’s wearing skinny little spectacles, and lovely silver shoes which Louis only notices because she gets to her feet and walks over to them.

“Just one moment, young man.” She’s got a tweed handbag hooked over her elbow, and that’s where her attention lies. “I just have to see… it might be my other bag, you know.”

She’s speaking more to her bag than to Louis or Harry. They both hold their breath, regardless.

Her arm disappears far down into the bag, much further than the laws of physics allow. She rummages around for a moment, bag up to her shoulder. “I’m a grandmother, you know, and you never know what the young ones might get up to. You have to be vigilant.”

That’s what Louis’ granny used to say about having bandaids in her purse.

“Ah! There it is.”

No _fucking_ way.

She pulls her arm free of the bag, smiles at Louis and Harry, and holds out a bezoar.

Louis may pass out. It’s a genuine concern.

“You’re very lucky, you know,” she tells them, “I just swapped my purse out last week.”

✨

Louis keeps it together by the very skin of his teeth. He keeps his face clear as they thank the woman — ‘ _call me Agatha, please,’_ — and offers her all the money he has on him. She refuses to take the payment, but she does accept their offer to replace the bezoar when they can with a grateful handshake from Harry. Louis can only give a thankful nod. He doesn’t trust himself to move much more than that.

Once they have her details, they carefully make their way out of the library. Harry keeps the bezoar in his hand, the other hand settled neatly in the small of Louis’ back.

It’s only when he can feel pebbles under his feet that Louis allows himself to lose control. His hands are shaking, and the only way to expel that feeling is to punch high up in the air.

He lets out a whoop.

There’s no words, none that can fully encompass the ridiculousness this day has been. Instead, breathless laughter spills out of him, and his body starts to bounce, energy thrumming out of his every pore. He feels too big for his bones, like he might fly up into the air all on his own, no broom required.

This is what it felt like when he got his _Quibs_ contract, and when he qualified for the national team.

Even the air is too heavy for him right now.

Harry’s footsteps are heavy in the pebbles next to him. He looks dazed, gazing off at the library grounds in front of them. He’s got the bezoar in his hand, grip limp and hanging loose at his side.

“I cannot believe that worked.”

Louis swats him in the arm. It’s very soft; Louis’ still too shocked to put much effort behind it. “It was your idea.”

“Yeah,” Harry wobbles a little from the impact. “ _Still_.”

It’s actually comforting to know Harry wasn’t as confident as he let on. How lovely that he would put on a brave face when Louis wasn’t capable of doing the same. Confident or not, his idea has saved Louis.

Louis wraps him up in a hug without thinking. Harry startles, the move rocking them both off balance for a second, before he figures out what’s happening and hugs Louis right back.

They stand there for a moment, swaying.

“Thank you,” Louis mumbles.

It feels a little odd to hold on this long. They don’t know each other very well, after all.

Harry doesn’t seem to mind. He rubs an open palm across the crown of Louis’ shoulder blade. “Nothing to thank me for.”

Louis shakes his head, right where it’s pressed up against Harry’s chest. He must feel it.

“Yes there is. I never would have managed this without you.”

He wouldn’t have. If he’d been alone when his cup had burst into flames, he’d probably have panicked and asked the first stranger about it. He’d have been reported to the committee in seconds, booted from the team shortly after.

He owes Harry everything.

“You’re a great player, Louis,” Harry doesn’t pull away from the hug, doesn’t even squirm in Louis’ arms. He seems totally comfortable where he is. “It would have been awful if you’d been kicked out of the league over something you didn’t do.”

Louis can’t help but squeeze him a little tighter.

“We still have to find the guy that did this, by the way.”

Harry’s right, of course, but it’s not a problem Louis wants to focus on right now, so he shakes his head. Harry must feel it against his shoulder.

“After the game.”

He’s not sure how they’ll go about it. If they tell the committee about all of this before the game, there’s a chance that they’ll boot him anyway. Telling them after could land him in just as much trouble.

Harry’s hand continues to glide over Louis’ back. Louis’ head is still against Harry’s shoulder; he can smell the musk at Harry’s neck, and feel the warmth radiating from his skin. They’ve probably been hugging too long.

Louis pulls back and Harry lets him go. Not far, though.

He brings his hands down Louis’ back, skimming across his sides and settling at Louis’ waist. He holds him there, titling his chin down a little to look at Louis.

Louis goes pink, vulnerable under such a careful gaze. With Harry holding him this way it feels wrong to pull his own hands away completely. They flutter uselessly for a moment, before settling on Harry’s arms. He curls his fingers, scratching at the space just above Harry’s elbows.

When Harry’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips, it is impossible for Louis not to track the movement.

Harry swallows. “Can I kiss you?”

That sobers Louis immediately. That lovely floating feeling evaporates entirely, and he rears backwards. It’s an instinct, pulling away as fast as possible and taking two, no three, huge steps backwards. A wounded expression flashes across Harry’s face. His hands, which had seconds ago held Louis so tightly, close around nothing.

“Oh, my god, no,” Louis says.

Harry’s face shutters. “Oh.”

“It’s the potion,” Louis rushes to say. He doesn’t like that look _at all._ “Harry, I don’t — you’re only saying this because of the potion. _Christ._ ” He is, all at once, flooded with anger. It’s hot and rushed and overwhelming. “Who even _came up_ with this stupid fucking thing?” he seethes. “The _consent issues_ alone, Jesus Christ.”

He’s distracted, lingering perhaps too closely on how badly he’d like to find his poisoner and _fuck him up_ , so he doesn’t notice straight away that Harry’s come closer again. When Louis does catch on he takes another step back.

“Louis,” Harry huffs. “You’re being silly.”

“Excuse me?” Louis says.

“The potion makes you lucky,” Harry says. “It’s not making me do anything.”

“It absolutely is!” Louis says. He gestures to all of Harry. “This is very lucky for me!”

Oops.

Harry’s eyes light up. “Is it?”

Louis blushes furiously. Apparently that is enough of an answer for Harry, all on its own. A little smirk creeps onto his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You know,” Harry’s voice is light, and comfortable, and confident. “I had a monster crush on you in school.”

Louis squeaks.

Harry goes on. “Yup. Since fourth year, actually. You had that little swoopy fringe and I couldn’t get it out of my head. I was obsessed.”

Louis laughs a little nervously at the thought of _anyone_ finding that specific haircut attractive. If someone had told him back then, he probably would have burst into flames just like Louis’ coffee cup had. It had taken him a long time to learn how to accept a compliment, and even longer to actually believe them.

Harry takes another step closer. This time, Louis is too caught up to back away.

“You were always wearing like, stripes and suspenders? Do you remember that? I thought it was so cool.”

This is not real.

Louis frowns. “Did someone put something in _your_ drink?”

He doesn’t remember seeing Harry drinking anything since the coffee this morning, but he looks around wildly anyway.

Harry barks a laugh. It’s loud and happy. “No.”

“Wait,” Louis resists the urge to ask if Harry’s absolutely sure, because he gets the feeling that might be a little insulting. He slowly nods his head, instead, forcing him to compute what Harry’s telling him. Harry… had a crush… on him? “In Hogwarts?”

“Have you literally not been listening to a word I’ve said?”

Wait, no, Louis’ confused.

“But I didn’t have the potion.”

Harry stares at him. “No... ?”

Louis thinks a little harder. It’s been a difficult day.

“So…”

“Merlin, you’re an idiot.”

Louis ignores him. “You liked me before?”

Harry is grinning, wide. “Yes,” he says. He draws the word out, long and slow and concise, like Louis’ a moron.

To be fair, Louis probably deserves it. He just, he needs to be sure.

“So it’s not the potion?”

Harry takes another step forward. He’s right up in Louis’ space now, crowding in on him. When he huffs a little laugh, warm air spills out across Louis’ nose.

“No. It’s not the potion.”

“Right.” Louis has to tilt his head back a little to keep looking Harry in the eye. “So if I kiss you right now, it’s not like, taking advantage?”

“Certainly not.” Harry’s dimples really are so lovely. “In fact, I’d like that very much.”

Louis does exactly that.

Harry’s lips are soft, it turns out. Soft and inviting. He tastes like the coffee Louis missed out on having earlier, bitter and sweet and everything Louis has been craving. It is easy for Louis to loop his hands around Harry’s neck, up and over those gorgeous, wide shoulders. His fingers thread through Harry’s curls, anchoring him there as Louis licks into his mouth. Harry’s hands come back to Louis’ hips. Louis can feel where he’s holding the bezoar, but he doesn’t pay it any attention. Especially not since Harry’s free hand tucks under the hem of Louis’ sweater and thumbs at the bare skin he finds there. They rock a little, unsteady, paying attention only to one another as they drink each other in.

Harry pulls back, but only a little, and only to hold the bezoar up between them Louis.

“There’s not much time left before the match.” Harry keeps his face close, his lips brushing against Louis’ as he speaks. “You should take this now.”

Louis takes it, and with his hand now free, Harry brings it to Louis’ jaw. He soothes the tips of his fingers along the skin there, and settles his open palm along the nape of Louis’ neck.

“You’re going to want to kiss me, after?” Louis has to check.

Harry laughs. It’s sublime. “Definitely.”

“You’re sure?”

“How about this?” Harry taps his index finger against the shell of Louis’ ear. “We can test it, once you’ve had it, if you like.”

Louis does like. He likes very much.

✨

Louis stumbles into the changeroom. Literally, _stumbles_. His foot catches on a small step at the entrance but he’s moving too quickly to recover. He crashes to the ground, knees first, then the rest of him, and lands heavy in a heap.

Wind knocked clean out of his chest, Louis shuts his eyes and lies there for a moment. When he blinks them open again, one of his teammates is leaning over him, looking sympathetic.

“ _C_ ’ _était malchanceux,”_ she says. They mustn’t have done the language charms yet, but that doesn’t matter. Louis knows this one.

_That was unlucky._

Feels bloody good.

✨

 

**Author's Note:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> i) All Harry Potter info that I didn’t know already came from Pottermore, HP Wiki & harrypotterfanzone.com
> 
> ii) Louis plays for the  Quiberon Quafflepunchers, a frequent winner of the French League. That’s a bit of a mouthful, so in the fic he’s shortened it to Quibs. I couldn’t find any spot that felt natural for him to say the full name.
> 
> iii) the guy who spiked Louis was just a crazy super-fan who wanted his team to win. I tried to include H & L catching him, but it didn’t fit properly. Cheaters never prosper, ppl!
> 
> iv) Massive thanks to the organisers of this exchange. It’s been an absolute joy playing around with this universe, and I hope to revisit it in the future.


End file.
